


i think it's called love

by scorchstorm



Category: Ackley Bridge (TV)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, OT5 Friendship, Panic Attacks, cory just has a lot of feelings, set after S2 finale, the nory is just implied, this is heavily abt friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-11 14:27:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19929559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorchstorm/pseuds/scorchstorm
Summary: He should be fine.It’s summer now, officially.  All the kids have had their prom and school’s out ‘til September rolls around again in a few months’ time. Exams are out of the way, sixth form is forgotten, the daily routine of work and standards and everything in between is gone.Cory’s not fine.// cory's never had much support. or so he thinks.





	i think it's called love

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this shortly after the S2 finale, but I fell out of writing for a while. Except lately Ackley's come back, and I've wanted to ignore canon, and actually finish this.
> 
> This is basically just Cory being a mess. He's got a lot of feelings, and this mainly deals with how lonely he is after S2 and accepting that people care about him.
> 
> It's all over the place, but I thought I'd post it anyway. Enjoy!

* * *

_“Some people care too much. I think it’s called love.”_ –A.A. Milne

* * *

The first thing he thinks of (and the only thing he knows how to do) is to call Riz.

He fumbles with his phone in his hand, thumbing tactlessly at the screen whilst it trembles in his grasp. The familiar lock screen of himself, Naveed and Riz smiling at the camera turns into a blur of colour, unrecognisable due to the onslaught of tears that he doesn’t know how to stop. 

It reminds him of those watercolours Jordan had desperately wanted to experiment with for ages but had never been able to afford. It reminds him of the way the scatterings of bruises on Jordan’s back would ripple whenever he moved, like he was using those watercolours after all and his skin was a blank canvas, battered and torn yet somehow still resembling a masterpiece. It makes Cory feel sick, and makes his knees buckle, and he can’t hold himself up any longer.

His legs hit the floor of his room at the same time he heaves, desperately trying to remember how to breathe. He can't even calm himself down long enough to do so, and his chest stutters violently, eyes swimming. The phone is still in his hand, gripped tight as if it were a lifeline, and the fingers on his free hand curl into the carpet beneath him, trying to hold on and ground himself.

He should be fine. It’s summer now, officially. All the kids have had their prom and school’s out ‘til September rolls around again in a few months’ time. Exams are out of the way, sixth form is forgotten, the daily routine of work and standards and everything in between is gone.

Cory’s not fine.

It’s not the first time he’s felt like this. Being unable to breathe, like he’s drowning and he can’t recall how to swim. The way his chest constricts as if there’s a weight pressing down against it, almost taunting him. Air feels like a rarity in that moment, something unattainable despite his hardest attempts.

The hand that’s braced on the ground lifts to his chest, and he clings to the material of his shirt, as if trying to tear the imaginary weight away from him. His fingertips are like claws, and he feels nothing, not even when he’s digging his nails in to try and carve out the pain. His other hand is moving feebly, mind on autopilot, and he’s thumbing through his contacts absently. As if he’s not even aware he’s doing it.

Everything is loud, loud, loud. His heartbeat clogs his ears, erupts in his chest, and his breathing sounds harsh to his own ears, pained and grating. It’s a stark difference to the quiet he’d grown used to, that familiar fuzz of static and the radio silence that would linger for days on end. Sometimes, there’d be a slight reprieve, an unusual crackle that would burst through. A wavering frequency that came and went in search for a station, one that was always fleeting in the end. Such as when he found out Jordan got into art college, that he’d be able to escape their dad and Ackley and all the bad that he’s had to deal with. Everything was raised in a way it hadn’t before, the volume breaching the usual level of quiet to resemble something good.

And then it faded again. Jordan left, and along with it went the signal. The radio wasn’t just faulty anymore, it was broken, and Cory couldn’t pick up on any sound. He couldn’t make sense of the noise he hears constantly, the continuous crackling and hissing that followed him everywhere. That’s all it is – noise – and it’s volatile but it’s never been loud, always on the low side, always reminding him that there’s nothing good left.

All at once, it’s like the sound barrier has been broken. All he can hear is sheer volume, a deafening pitch that has him wanting to cling to his ears and shove his head between his knees and just break. Tears stream down his face, breathing still filling the space around him, as if it’s a broken record he can’t stop, and it overwhelms him in an instant.

With trembling fingers, he allows the phone to clatter down beside him, and he shakily traces against the screen to call Riz.

He doesn’t know how he manages it. All he knows is that he needs someone, that he can’t do this on his own. He doesn’t want to, nor is he able to. And he’s never had that feeling, that it’ll be alright, that there’s someone willing to help him out. He still can’t place it, if he’s honest, and even though there are moments that shine through when his friends comfort him, he can’t quite bring himself to stomach them. He doesn’t know how to.

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to try.

That all goes out the window in a second. As soon as he hears the faint ringing floating through the space, soon as he manages to put Riz on speaker and wait for him to answer, he knows he’s not ready for this. To let other people care about him, to throw them in at the deep end and let them open their eyes and see just how fucked up he really is.

He’s a father, he’s a big brother. He should be able to handle himself.

Except he can’t.

Which is why as soon as he hears Riz pick up, and cheerily let out a cheerful, “Alright, soft lad?” he breaks.

He starts sobbing.

The cycle had somehow broken momentarily, allowed him that moment to reach out, to break through the haze. And now it’s back in full swing, and he can’t hear anything. Riz’s voice becomes the static he’s so used to hearing in his house, that he’s so familiar with when he’s alone with his thoughts. It’s second nature to brush it away into the background, for his panic to overwhelm him once more.

Maybe this is it, he thinks. ‘Cause his heart is beating so loud he feels as though it might deafen him, the way it fills his ears and vibrates his chest with every frantic gasp for air. It might burst, is what it feels like, and the dread that coils in the pit of his stomach makes him feel like he’s dying.

Is that what this is?

It won’t stop. _He_ won’t stop. It’s gotten to the point where he’s curled his legs up in front of him, even though his knees knock together frantically as they tremble, and he’s clutching his ears. Leaning forward, hyperventilating, and clinging to his ears in a feeble attempt to make it go away. To try and lessen the noise, to try and ignore it, anything he can. Nothing works.

He thinks of an ocean, and he’s drowning, flailing to try and break the surface but he’s only making himself sink faster. He thinks of a desert, and he’s scorching, the sun beaming down on him and blistering his skin, gagging for air. He thinks of a storm, and he’s drenched, covered in the torrential downpour that doesn’t seem to cease. His clothes cling to his skin and stifle him, wet hair falls into his eyes and blinds him, and thunder cackles overhead like a taunt.

Cory thinks of Jordan, and he’s ashamed, remembering the flashes of furious reds and sickly yellows, of the stretches of stark white skin that contrast the beatings he’d get, the shades of blues and purples that he’d wear like second skin. How he’d stand back and watch as his baby brother was struck down again and again by his dad, and he did nothing to stop it. And yet he’s the one freaking out, he’s the one who can’t breathe, he’s the one who feels like the weight of the world is on his shoulders.

He’s the one that deserved all that.

He hits his elbow on his dresser, a jerky movement as if trying to wade through rising water, trying to manipulate his body to try and stay afloat, even though he’s in his room. It’s as if he’s a tiny boy all over again, scared and vulnerable and alone.

Desperately, he clenches his eyes shut. He’s certain that his breathing cuts out altogether at some points, his hyperventilating switching to periods of pure convulsing, in which his body seemingly forgets what breathing is. And he tries, he tries so hard, but there’s nothing. He opens and closes his mouth, tries to suck in, tries everything. It just doesn’t work. And then there might be a sudden surge, feeling like there’s a jump of electricity in the live-wire that is his body, and it starts all over again.

He still can’t _breathe_.

It just makes him curl his fists tighter, makes him press the heels of his palms harder into the sides of his head. His breathing makes for a harsh melody in his ears, and the rhythm of his heart keeps in time, both erratic and restless and consuming him until he can’t even make sense of his thoughts.

Closing his eyes doesn’t help him to escape at all. ‘Cause he expects to see a dark abyss but instead, it’s his father. His face pinched tight and fists raised, knuckles bruised and split and a constant reminder of the monster he is. It’s a never-ending nightmare, even though he’s awake.

“Cory!”

It sounds so real, the sound of his name. It somehow splits the chaos, reaching him deep in his core even though there’s a sea of sound that it had to pass through. The image of his dad behind his eyelids hasn’t changed, his mouth doesn’t move, but it still sends a chill through him.

And then he feels someone touching him – and it’s real, it’s not in his head. It’s a hand clamped tightly on to his shoulder; he can feel the warmth of a palm through his shirt, fingertips ground into his skin. It’s enough to make his eyes fly open, darting around frantically before falling on the person in front of him, eyelashes batting his tears from his vision so he can finally see clearly.

Riz is knelt in front of him.

His face somehow mirrors exactly how Cory feels – urgent, and scared, with his eyes darting about Cory’s face as if searching for something. He’s talking, Cory can see his lips moving, but he can’t concentrate on what he’s saying. He can’t pull himself down from his panic long enough to make sense of anything.

Riz reaches out to him, gently but forcibly removing Cory’s hands from his head and pulling them down. He takes one of his hands in a tight grip, and the other pulls one of Cory’s towards his own chest, which is steady in contrast to Cory’s own.

As soon as he feels the warmth radiating from Riz’s chest, feels the way it heaves in a decent rhythm with his breathing, Cory curls his fingers into his sweatshirt and clings, as if it’ll be enough to bring him down again.

“Focus on my voice, on my breathing,” he thinks he hears. “You’re alright. I’m here.”

There’s a lot of things he wants to say, but he knows he can’t. Not until he calms down. Some of it he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to voice out loud, things such as _I’m a liability, you shouldn’t bother,_ or _I’m always going to let you down_. Things that should be common knowledge, that haunt him every day, every time he looks at his friends and wonders why exactly he’s managed to hold on to something good for so long.

There’s an echo of the crack that Riz’s body had made when he tackled him. There’s a reminder of Naveed and the way his face fell when he realised what Cory had done. There’s a flash of the look on Nasreen’s face, staring at him in a new light for having hurt her best friend.

There’s always something he does wrong, and that’s when everything starts to crumble. He doesn’t think he’s managed to hold on to anything. He just thinks that somehow, against better judgement, they’ve stayed. They’ve held on so he doesn’t have to, and for what? For him to mess up every time, to joke around and act as though nothing bothers him. As though he and those he hurts can laugh it off every time without fail, can brush off his actions after one conversation.

It shouldn’t be enough, but it is, and it makes Cory’s chest ache with the realisation.

There’s fingers brushing against his jaw line, feather-light and fleeting, before a hand rests on his neck and a thumb is gently pushing his face to the left. To look at Riz, who hasn’t once moved from where they’re both kneeling on the floor, who hasn’t once laughed at him.

Who must’ve come running as soon as he knew Cory wasn’t alright.

It makes him heave, makes him gasp, and he’s choking.

“You’re alright,” he hears, through his breathing and his heartbeat and his thoughts. As he doubles over, the hand moves from his throat to his back, and Riz is tracing his hand over his spine comfortingly. It’s kind, and supportive, and yet it does nothing but trigger something nasty to coil within Cory’s chest, his stomach.

He inhales deeply, as if having woken up from a nightmare and he’s desperate for air. And in a way, he is. He focuses on his carpet until it blurs, thinks of Riz and the reassurance his touch brings, and feels it. The slight shift of the tide, the way his chest constricts in a way that allows him to breathe, allows his ears to flush out all of the sounds that’d just been clogging the sink, the drain clearing and the terror slowly able to swirl away.

It’s quiet now, impossibly so, with nothing but the noise of his ragged breathing, barely audible. There’s a few whimpers that manage to grate against him like a record scratch, and the way his heart thuds in his chest feels like fists against him, but he can breathe. He can, and he is.

“You’re doing really well, mate,” Riz says. His voice is hushed, as if too afraid to raise it any higher than a whisper, but it resonates with Cory as loud as his heartbeat. Riz keeps rubbing at his back as he coughs and splutters, keeps quiet whilst he regains his breath.

“I can’t-” Cory chokes out, voice strangled.

“It’s alright,” says Riz, even as Cory’s arms tremble from holding himself up, even as he continues to shudder and ride out the final waves. “You’re alright.”

He doesn’t feel alright, he wants to bite back, but he knows that he’s better off now than he was before. Having Riz here has helped him immensely, and without him, Cory wonders if he’d have been able to calm himself down. He wonders if his panic would’ve lasted so much longer than it did.

It feels like it’s been hours, but he’s not sure. He doubts it, ‘cause from the way his chest was burning and his throat felt as though it were closing up, he’d figured he was seconds away from passing out. It can’t have been too long – but then, how did Riz get here so fast? Nothing makes much sense; his head still swimming and stomach still flipping.

Cory pushes himself off of his hands and manages to lean back, resting against the heels of his feet with his back straightening out momentarily. It lasts for a few moments, and then he lets himself fall back onto the ground, his weight collapsing against his dresser. He thinks it’s the way Riz is looking at him that makes him buckle, like he wants to say something but he’s holding back. There’s no judgement, or disgust, but there’s concern, light eyes darting around his body as if examining him for any other signs of a break. Cory doesn’t know how to process it.

The final dregs of tension alleviate from his body and he feels his shoulders slump, spine curling as he hunches forward slightly, pulling his legs into a cross-legged position beneath him. His bare skin grazes against the carpet, the slight burn reminding him of the calm before the storm, the building of being unable to breathe and unable to cool himself down. It does nothing but make him duck his head, breathing in and out of his mouth, watching the way his chest raises and falls with every breath. The sight reassures him that he’s doing alright, that he’s regained some sort of normality.

It’s the heat of Riz’s gaze that prickles his skin, makes him feel like the sun is scorching down on him even though they’re inside. He’s clad in nothing but a pair of his shorts and yet he still feels suffocated, still feels as though the walls are closing in on them.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

It’s a soft whisper, the beginning of rainfall after an intense drought. Cory feels safer already hearing his voice, hearing somebody that’s not gone running because it’s too much to handle, because _he’s_ too much.

“I don’t-” Cory starts, the words hoarse and rough in his throat, heavy on his tongue. He sits there, tracing his fingers along the skin of his leg in silence, frustrated with the way his chest still feels clamped in a vice, with the way he closes up in fear.

During the quiet, Riz gets up from the floor, signalling with his finger that he’ll be back in a minute. The gesture causes something warm to erupt in Cory’s chest – a good kind, he thinks. Not the familiarity in which he feels as though he’s on fire, but gentle, a caring flare that he’s only ever experienced a handful of times.

Riz ducks out of the room, and faintly Cory hears him clattering down the stairs, the thud of his footsteps keeping in time with the beat of Cory’s heart. He tries not to think about the possibility of Riz leaving, even though he knows deep down he’s not. It’s just that Cory is so used to people leaving that it wouldn’t surprise him, in the end.

He feels his mouth moving, lips tracing words he wants to say but doesn’t quite know how to voice aloud. He opens and closes his mouth absently, words evading him entirely, because there are moments in which he doesn’t know the words for what he wants to say at all. He’s lost.

“Here,” it’s Riz, popping back into the room after what feels like centuries. He’s already lowering himself back to the floor by the time Cory decides to open his eyes and lift his head, and he spots a glass of water in Riz’s hand. His chest constricts something horrible, and when Riz offers him the glass, he slowly takes it with shaking fingers.

“You’re alright,” he murmurs, leaning back on his knees as he watches Cory lift the glass, clanking it painfully against his teeth after a particularly violent tremor that shoots through him.

Cory manages about three swallows before he has to stop, before the sudden coolness in his throat sends a chill down his spine. It helps, though, and he shoots Riz what he hopes is a grateful smile as he leans forward to take the glass away, putting it down next to him. The way his face stretches is almost painful, like an elastic pulled tight, and he thinks it’s mirrored in his expression from the way Riz’s own face falls.

“I was coming back from Hayley’s when you called,” he says quietly, shuffling forward slightly and sitting cross-legged himself, close enough so that their knees bump together. He’s fiddling with his fingers in his lap, wringing them with worry, and the sight reminds Cory that he’s always dragging his mates into his mess when he shouldn’t be.

“Sorry,” Cory grounds out, wincing at the sound of his own voice.

“Don’t be,” Riz says automatically. “Just glad I wasn’t too far, n’ that.”

“You didn’t have to come.”

Riz looks unimpressed. “Yeah, I should’ve left you to deal with that alone, should I?”

It’s not meant to be harsh, nothing in his tone suggests for it to be, but the bite of Riz’s words hits Cory hard. The fear and worry make for a volatile mix, and it makes him think of Riz sprinting to his home, tense and terrified and everything Cory hates.

“Sorry,” Riz deflates. “It’s not your fault. I was just worried, is all.”

_You shouldn’t be._

“Okay,” is what Cory says instead, taking great interest in the way their knees are pressed together, the comfort that the slightest touch brings. It gives him an excuse to keep his gaze away from Riz’s, because he can feel the intensity of his eyes and decides that he doesn’t want to risk having another one of those meltdowns.

“How come you called me, anyway?” it’s light, meant to be a distraction.

All it does is remind Cory of other things. It’s not like Riz was his second choice, not exactly. He’d desperately wanted to call Naveed initially, but backed out at the last second, unable to forget how he’d hurt him. It’s as if he’s hit a road block when it comes to their friendship, because before he meant it when he could talk to Naveed. Now he can’t, not really. Cory thinks it’s to do with the mess of feelings he has whenever he does so much as look at him, because there’s things he can’t quite get out of his head and take up more of his mind than he’d care to admit.

He’s not ready to admit it – whatever it is – to himself. Partly because he can’t place what everything means exactly, partly because there’s that stubborn part of him that doesn’t want to.

And so he’d thought of Riz, because he’s the only person other than Naveed that he really trusts. He’s the only other person he’d let witness what a mess Cory has made of himself, because he thinks Riz gets it, in a way, that constant fear of never being enough.

So Cory settles for a soft, “I wanted to hear your voice,” because it’s true. Most days at sixth form, he’d find solace in Riz, because he’s always laid back and just _there_ , if Cory should ever need him. The days that followed the incident of the rugby pitch tortured Cory for days, the mix of guilt and longing for his friend to come back, for that familiarity to continue as though it’d never broken.

Riz snorts, the sound making Cory crack the faintest of smiles because of how natural it all is. “You’re a proper soft lad, ain’t ya?”

“Only for you,” Cory manages to tease, and then they’re grinning at one another, light breaking through the dark.

Riz’s face softens, then, and he’s serious. “You can talk to me, you know,” he says.

“I know,” Cory replies, because he does.

“Cory,” he says. “You had a panic attack. You can’t just brush it under the rug.”

Panic attack.

Yeah, that sounds about right.

“It just happened. I don’t know why.”

“Sometimes, there might not be a reason,” Riz says. “Or other times, maybe, you don’t know why because you aren’t thinking about that kind of shit. With everything having gone on these past months, what with your dad and Jordan and all that, I’m not surprised you had one.”

“You sound like you know what you’re talking about,” Cory says casually, but from the way his voice strains, he’s not sure it works.

There’s something different glinting in Riz’s eyes now, an understanding he hadn’t noticed before. Maybe it’s new, or maybe he’s always looked at Cory like that, like he knows too much.

“Yeah,” it’s quiet. “You could say that.”

Cory reaches up to drag a hand down his face. “I get that feeling a lot. Y’know, where you can’t breathe.” A pause. “Like you’re drowning.”

Riz’s lips part, and it makes Cory’s chest constrict, because he doesn’t think he’ll be able to get this out if he stops now. It’s why his next words tumble out of his mouth almost involuntarily, taking a leap of faith before he gets too scared.

“It’s just – everything’s just loud, y’know? And I can’t -“ he scrunches his face up in frustration. “I don’t know how to deal with it sometimes.”

“Cor-”

“I don’t have anyone to help me turn it down.”

There’s a silence that falls after that, and just like everything else, it’s loud. It’s a bassline vibrating through his chest, deep in his bones, but without any lyrics. Cory just _feels_ things he can’t explain because he doesn’t have the words to make it better.

His eyes zone in on a stain on his carpet, hooded and heavy, avoiding Riz’s gaze.

“That’s understandable,” Riz cuts in, a whisper ringing through the air like a hoarse scream.

It somehow rolls off his tongue an awfully lot like _relatable_ , and Cory struggles to swallow around the lump that’s blooming in his throat.

A heat begins to crawl up his neck, flooding his cheeks, because it’s struck him hard. The knowledge that he’s being so selfish and focusing on himself settles like a kick to the teeth. He’s not the only one fighting a war. There’s an echo of Naveed’s trembling hands, a flash of Missy’s teary eyes, a memory of Riz’s sullen face.

Cory hates himself.

“Stop thinking so hard, you’ll strain yourself.”

His head snaps up at the sound, like he’s a puppet and Riz is pulling the strings. Except he takes one look at his friend and feels those strings being cut, because there’s that look again. That face as if he knows exactly what Cory’s thinking, knows that he won’t talk if he’s forced to.

And so Riz sits and waits, concern blatant in his eyes but remaining silent. It’s patience, the offering of an olive branch, and it’s Cory’s choice whether or not he takes it.

“You’ve got your own shit,” is what Cory settles on.

He’s not rejecting the offer but he’s not accepting it either, stuck in the middle with twitching fingertips.

“I’m okay right now. You’re not.”

“Riz-”

“I’ve got you,” Riz repeats, firm but gentle. It’s him saying that he’s not going anywhere, but it’s ultimately still Cory’s decision.

Cory’s heart swells, but in a good way. It’s still suffocating, overwhelming, but Cory can still breathe. He can work with it.

His fingers reach out, and he’s tumbling into Riz before he can stop himself, gripping him tightly as if he’s a lifeline. Arms reach up to curl around the top of his shoulder blades, tugging him in closer, and somehow the contact grounds him instead of making his skin crawl. He’s letting himself have this one moment.

He lets himself be held, Riz’s chin hooked over his shoulder, and Riz’s mumble feels like the missing words that Cory has been trying to think of for months. The vibration his voice sends through Cory’s body floods him with light instead of dark, and it’s as if there’s a shift, as if something’s now complete that hadn’t been before.

“I ain’t going nowhere.”

Cory cries, cries, cries, but for once, he doesn’t hear a thing.

* * *

After he’d finished crying, he’d detangled himself from Riz and asked if they could watch a film or something, anything to feel _normal_. The throbbing pain in his chest at the thought of Jordan at art school and his dad out God knows where had dulled to a persistent throb when Riz nodded and said he’d order takeaway, taking Cory’s breakdown and weight in stride.

Cory had even tried to thank him in the middle of the night, when neither of them could sleep and were both restless. Riz was lying on the floor, rigid as a board whenever he moved (‘cause he still wasn’t used to life without a neck brace just yet) and Cory’s body writhed beneath his covers, and he’d been glad for the dark. Nobody could see his flushed face, or the way his entire body quivered, or the way his eyes flooded with tears.

The only giveaway was the tremble of his voice, giving out halfway through, as easy as tearing wet tissue paper. “Thanks for today.”

There’s no way Riz couldn’t have heard it, with it being the dead of night and with only a few strides of space between them, but he didn’t hint towards it at all. All that he offered was a simple phrase, full of sincerity.

“Anytime.”

It must’ve been exactly what Cory needed to settle, as if it was permission for him to sleep, because he doesn’t remember much after that. He’s pretty sure he passed out from exhaustion if anything, and for the first night in a while, he doesn’t have nightmares or restless dreams. He doesn’t even think he dreams at all, doesn’t think he’d be ready for that, and instead it feels as if he’s only been out for minutes, not hours.

Cory wakes up with dazed eyes and a light head, the sun streaming through his drapes. It’s ironic in a way, because the night before had been stormy clouds and relentless thunder. The night before had eased into sunrays breaking through the dark, a friend helping a friend, and the light that casts over Cory’s face this morning holds a promise that he’d only thought of in his dreams.

Cory wakes up alone.

For a brief, sickening moment, he fears he’s made it all up. That Riz never came over, the thick black clouds had never been split, the brightness never managing to make its way through. That he’d never be able to get this feeling off his chest, that Cory wasn’t made for bright things like he wishes he was, like he wants to let himself have one day.

And then there’s a faint echo that rips up the stairs, the clattering of cupboards and the faint sound of a melody, some muffled singing and colourful swearing. It’s warm, just like the sun outside his window, and the thought of Riz downstairs – the thought of having somebody, someone who knows, someone who hasn’t left yet – is enough to pull Cory from his bed.

His bare feet hit the floor and he pads across his room, slipping out the door with as much silence as possible, second nature to him now. It was all those days of sneaking out of random hook-ups homes, of trying to remain undetected by his dad in fear of causing more trouble, of avoiding Jordan because he couldn’t face the fact that his little brother had to grow up far faster than Cory had.

It was all that time spent soaking up the attention at school when in reality he’d trained himself to be quiet, to let people see and hear what they wanted when Cory had done everything he could to keep himself under wraps.

It’s different now.

He reaches the bottom of the stairs and hears more clattering about, along with a voice that’s too high to be Riz’s stifled by the walls. It makes him pause, something cold seizing him by the throat, because this isn’t what he was prepared for.

Riz had been an instinct. Someone he called because he trusted them, because he could break and feel like Riz wouldn’t sweep the shattered fragments under the rug like it was nothing. Riz was the first choice Cory had made for himself in a long time – or maybe ever – and the knowledge that there’s someone else, someone who doesn’t _know_ , who may make him feel as tiny as an ant when he’s been fighting so hard to be bigger, to be better.

There’s a brief window in which Cory loses himself in his own head, debating whether he can bounce up the stairs quickly and quietly and curl back into bed, a last minute effort at trying to find the strength to face reality. It lasts all of three seconds, because that’s when the kitchen door opens and none other than Missy Booth emerges into the hallway, gaze clashing with Cory’s almost instantly.

And this is the thing – Cory doesn’t hate Missy. He’s quite fond of her, actually, because she’s never one for lying down and taking anyone’s shit and it’s something he admires, even if jealousy coils in his stomach at her bite because instead of standing up for himself, he folds like cards. Missy doesn’t stand for rumours, but Cory plays up to them, letting people’s assumptions of him narrate his life and dictate who he’s supposed to be as opposed to who he actually is, who he _wants_ to be, even if he isn’t sure what that means just yet.

It’s just that Missy is the biggest fucking gossip there is, and if Cory does so much as breathe too suspiciously, she’d be on him like a hawk. The ice around his throat feels like a noose, and he’s stifled but he’s trying to choke it down, trying to think of something to say.

Missy pins him with a look he can’t place, and he breaks out in a cold sweat. If Riz or Naveed saw how stricken he looked now, they’d rinse him within an inch of his life because _mate, you’re such a pussy._ And it’d always been playful, full of banter, but his head twists the words into something ugly, a hard shove against his chest to toughen up despite not being ready to.

She strides towards him quietly, without a peep, and it unnerves him so much he has to grip the banister hard, knuckles turning as white as the chipped paint on the walls.

“How’d you sleep?”

It’s calm, and understanding, void of any judgemental tone or prying motives. It’s a question that’s genuine, and it takes him by surprise for a moment, Missy’s face nothing but kind, and patient. It’s everything Cory needed but couldn’t find the words to admit, and her presence somehow grounds him and makes his skin crawl all at once.

_She can’t know anything, can she? But then – why would she ask that? Why is she looking at him like she knows something? Fuck, what if –_

A few seconds pass, or to Cory’s judgement, more like years. He thinks he’s aged more in the past twenty four hours than he has his whole life, but it can’t be true, not even with all the shit that’s happened. ‘Cause sometimes he’s tired and worn, living with aging bones and weakened eyes, and other days feel like he’s young and helpless and that his world is ending from something as simple as scraping his knee. Old and young and the people he becomes in between, draining all his energy.

Missy looks at him now, though, and he doesn’t know what version of him she sees.

He doesn’t know what one he’d _want_ her to see.

“I’m starving,” she announces suddenly, eyes flickering all over his face.

Maybe she sussed out his inner turmoil in two seconds flat, or maybe she got tired of waiting for a response. Either way, the change is a much needed distraction, even if he’s scrambling to try and think of how to play this right.

“What do ya want?”

Cory blinks. “Wh – what?”

She rolls her eyes playfully, and in response, reaches out to curl her hand around his wrist. The contact burns for all of a moment until he realises that there’s nothing about Missy right now that suggests she’s trying to make fun of him or that she has an angle or anything like that. The action is simple, natural, much like Riz bringing him a glass of water the night before.

Something he couldn’t bring himself to ask for, couldn’t let himself have.

A friend helping out a friend.

And it’s not – they aren’t – maybe they’ve never been friends, but isn’t that what this is?

Isn’t this the only thing he has left?

Missy turns then, giving his wrist a gentle tug as she struts back down to the kitchen, guiding him. She’d sussed him out in seconds, how his eyes were darting around and how he seemed skittish, ready to bolt given the chance. Instead, he follows numbly with fumbling feet, a lump in his throat preventing the gratitude he wants to express.

And before he can brace himself, they’re in the kitchen, and Cory’s heart kicks into overdrive, mind racing at a hundred miles an hour.

There’s music streaming from a blue pocket speaker over on the far counter, soft guitar strings and a gentle voice lofting through the air, a much needed calm. Plastic bags are on the side, half empty, and cabinets and drawers are open around the room. There’s Riz who’s fumbling with his phone, and Nasreen and _fuck_ , Naveed is here, and they’re unpacking the bags and storing the contents away whilst giggling and joking around.

The house is alive in a way it never really has been before, and the warmth blooming in Cory’s chest is foreign but ultimately a good thing.

Except Cory’s never really known how to deal with good things.

It must be palpable in the air, thick like fog all around them, because they all stop what they’re doing to look over. Missy steps away from him, fingertips falling from his wrist just as they catch sight of him limp in the doorway, eyebrows pinched together in question, and the soft music floats out of the speaker and keeps rhythm to the fearful hammering of his heart, the drumbeat that is the only other sound he can hear.

“He’s awake!” Riz chirps first, abandoning his phone on the countertop to flash Cory an easy grin. His light eyes are gentle, hesitant, as if he’s holding up his hands defensively. _Don’t be mad_ , is what Cory reads from his friend. _Don’t be scared._

He’s always been scared though.

He doesn’t know how not to be.

“We’re making breakfast,” Nas fills in, offering him a smile. 

“Well, we are,” Naveed says next, gesturing between himself and Nas. “Maybe Riz, but that depends on whether you want to have salmonella from your eggs.”

“Oi!”

“Somebody better start or there’ll be trouble,” Missy declares, hoisting herself up to perch on top of a counter, swinging her legs idly.

Cory can’t tear his eyes away from the scene before him, can’t process the affection that swells his heart three sizes. He must have the shock written all over his face, the struggle that pinches his face together, because in the next moment his friends continue what they were doing with ease, almost as if he’d never been absent from the room in the first place.

“I’m busy anyway.”

“Doing what, exactly?”

“Uh, hello? I’m the DJ?”

“A shite one at that.”

He struggles to swallow around his heart lodged in his throat, and his fingertips twitch, wanting to reach out to Riz and express his gratitude, yet wanting to curl his fingers into a fist because _how does he deal with this?_ He can’t keep his eyes on Naveed for too long before he has to tear them away, the same way you wrench your hand away from being burned, guilt clawing at his chest and a jump to his heartbeat he can’t explain (or maybe he’s too scared to).

He fears Missy will grill him with questions or fill in the blanks herself, the impending rumour mill and whispers whirling round his head already. He wonders what Nas thinks of him in that moment, having hurt her best friend (and his own) and acting like the victim.

He doesn’t know if this is real.

“Move, I want toast.”

“Nas, do you want orange or apple juice?”

“Anyone for tea?”

It’s domestic, and casual, and everything Cory isn’t used to. He knows what his mates are doing, and he’s grateful, but he doesn’t know where to start –

“Cory?”

It’s Riz standing in front of him now, the girls and Naveed visible over his shoulder where they’re squabbling over something, laughter ringing out like wind chimes that grate against Cory’s ears instead of triggering a smile, and it makes his mouth twist.

“I just wanted to make sure you were good,” Riz continues slowly, quietly, low for their ears only. “I just – I didn’t tell them anything, I promise bro. Just that you needed company.”

Cory needs company.

It’s an understatement, but Riz seems like he’s downplaying it for Cory’s sake, because as simple as it sounds it hits him like a ton of bricks.

It strikes him just how lonely he’s been.

His breath stutters briefly, low and snagging in his throat, and it makes Riz reach out to grab his upper arm, giving it a squeeze.

“We’ve got you, mate.”

Words have always evaded Cory, whether talking about his problems or just a simple lie of how he’s feeling. It’s no surprise his mouth dries up, tongue weighted, and he can only nod his head wordlessly, feeling drunk from the heaviness of his movements.

“So,” Riz says, mustering up some cheer in his voice. “What do you fancy for breakfast? The girls and Nav went the shops, so we’ve got some bits in.”

They’re helping and all Cory can think is how much of a burden he is to everyone.

He aims for a smile but it settles into a grimace, and Riz’s eyes seem to soften.

“Alright,” he murmurs, as if he gets it.

Cory doesn’t think he does, but then again, Cory can’t even make sense of his own head half the time.

So he musters up the little strength he has and does what Cory Wilson does best.

Act like everything’s fine.

* * *

They end up eating a load of food over the course of a few hours, bantering back and forth and shoving reruns on the front room telly and taking the piss out of everyone and everything. There’s laughter that makes their eyes misty and a warmth that settles that feels bearable, the focus being on acting as though nothing had changed as opposed to the elephant in the room.

Missy and Nas are washing up and putting everything away, and Riz has ducked outside to give Hayley a ring, and so it’s just Cory and Naveed left in the living room. He hasn’t offered up too much these past few hours, not wanting to push himself too far and have himself break, but enough to maintain the typical lad image everyone’s come to expect from him, joking around like there’s no tomorrow.

However, this is the first time that he’s been alone with Naveed since –

There’s echoes of racing hearts and breathy noises and the weight of Naveed’s ribs beneath his own, soft skin and gentle touches that felt safe and secure. There’s memories of those same hearts breaking, faces falling, lumps in throats and avoided gazes, and Cory can’t help but glance at his best friend and remember all the reasons as to why it was easier to pull away in the first place.

He’s not actively tried to avoid Naveed, just… just that he tries to make sure there’s always someone else around. Cory hadn’t been able to trust himself alone with Naveed ever since that night, because whilst they’re still good friends, being alone with him is too hard.

Being alone with Naveed is like looking into the mirror, the surface cracked all over, reminiscent of Naveed’s heart and the image of utter devastation bleeding through on the other side. A broken mirror brings years’ worth of bad luck, and it’s fitting for Cory and how for the past several years, all he’s ever seemed to do is break anything good he could ever have.

“Seriously though,” Naveed speaks up. It startles him, and his heart jumps, and Naveed cuts through his mind like cutting his fingers on the broken shards. “I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone to eat so much toast.”

Cory snorts, an ugly uncontrollable sound that has him wincing. “Yeah, well, Riz is a bit odd,” he settles on saying, praying in silence for the storm to pass.

If Naveed notices his discomfort, he doesn’t say a word. “He ate a whole loaf,” he states flatly.

“You had, what, three bowls of cereal?”

“That’s different,” Naveed protests, and a smile cracks along Cory’s chapped lips.

“Woulda been four if Missy hadn’t got in there first.”

“She’s practically a hoover,” Naveed says, comically widening his eyes and glancing towards the doorway as if Missy could hear them, and Cory huffs out a laugh.

There’s a brief lapse of silence and Naveed glances back at him, and all at once, everything floods back. There’s nothing malicious about Naveed, and he’s nothing but good intentions, but all Cory can focus on is the fear. He’s not enough, he doesn’t deserve this –

“Do you want to talk at all?”

He especially doesn’t know how to handle anything. Breakfast was bad enough, his mates having bought him food from their own money or whatever they’d managed to scrounge up, and then they stayed to keep him company. Probably more out of pity than anything else, he thinks, even though there’s a nagging part of his brain that tells him off, reminds him that it’s not like that.

It’s never been like that.

That doesn’t mean a thing to Cory right now though. The only thing Cory can focus on is the patience of Naveed, the willingness to help, and the fact that there doesn’t seem to be enough words in the world to even begin.

“About what?” he settles on asking.

_Deflect, hide, lie. Do anything but tell the truth. Don’t let them in. It’ll hurt too much, it’ll be too hard._

“Anything.”

That’s an issue in itself. Naveed says anything as though it’s easy. Cory has a million thoughts and thinks he’ll never be able to let them free.

He stays quiet, eyes settling on the coffee table, tracking Naveed’s movements absently from his peripherals. He’s facing Cory, giving him his full attention, prompting him gently as if he knows not too push too hard.

“Jordan? Your dad?”

All glaring reminders that all he’s got are issues, issues, issues. That’s just his family – his brother and his bruises, his father and his absence. The ghosts that remain even though they’re both gone at the moment, the chaos that runs deep in his veins, right down to his bloodline.

Then there’s school. The lack of a goal, of knowing what it is he wants to do with his life after sixth form. The struggle to connect with a subject other than sports because all he’s known in life is to keep getting back up after he’s been knocked down, the choice on whether he wants to simply lie down in the dirt being taken from him because there’s people, always, and he can’t let them know he’s anything but capable. That he’s scared, and lonely, and tired.

And then there’s Jamie. The countless stream of girls at school he’d slept with, and the mothers or older students he’d get off with and then raid for scraps, and how they’d all hate him one way or another. All mistakes he doesn’t know how to stop making, all consequences that come back to haunt him in the night, never-ending reminders that there is nothing he can do quite like making all the wrong choices.

And Naveed.

Perhaps one of his best (worst) mistakes, and he doesn’t quite know if that’s just from befriending him in the first place. Naveed is without a doubt his favourite person, and that’s also what taunts him. There’s a pull there that brings him happiness and yet holds the power to bring him night terrors.

There’s a cliché or two that won’t leave him alone, the kind that girls speak about in films.

_There’s a boy._

_Isn’t there always?_

There shouldn’t be anyone for Cory, not like this. He’s heard about racing pulses and stolen breath and sweaty palms but he’s never thought that he’d ever be affected like that. Not by any girl.

Except this isn’t a girl. This is his best friend.

This is something he can’t have.

He doesn’t – doesn’t even know what it is he wants, or what he could even have if it came down to it. He just knows it’s too much, and he’s not ready, and he’s taken to hiding it into the dark depths of his mind because like with everything else, it lurks in the shadows, and he’s never been one for wanting to provoke the monsters that thrive there.

“You’ve got friends.”

Cory’s head snaps up, eyes meeting Naveed’s instantly.

“You’ve got me,” Naveed echoes quietly, a small smile on his face.

There’s an alleyway, and Cory scrambling to catch the falling pieces, clinging tight and never wanting to let go. And now it’s a stained sofa and a deserted house, Cory seconds away from tumbling over the cliff’s edge, Naveed extending a hand.

He could take it, if he knew how.

There’s a part of him, though, that knows he wouldn’t take it even if he knew.

Instead, he lets go.

“I know,” he says back, because he does. This alone is difficult to handle, the reminder that there’s people that for some reason give a shit, and so there’s no chance in Hell he’s going to be able to pull himself up when the reassurance of others is the thing weighing him down. He can’t even close his eyes and take the leap to tell Naveed everything –the fear, the guilt, the unknown.

He’s not ready.

“Good,” Naveed murmurs, gazing thoughtfully over at him.

Cory swallows, managing what he thinks is a convincing smile before taking great interest in the coffee table again, the clicking of clock hands in the background sounding like bullets, like an impending taunt.

He’s on a countdown and there’ll be no more time after it’s ended for him to pull himself together.

The worst thing is that he doesn’t know if he’ll _ever_ be ready.

* * *

Cory lasts until the sun begins to set before he can’t breathe again.

They all begin to trickle out of the house when the sun dips beneath the horizon, an orange dust coating the sky the colour of rust, the way things become over time when _life_ wears it away.

Cory is leaning against the kitchen doorframe, aiming for casual when in reality it’s acting as support, bones feeling like jelly as he watches his friends stuff their feet into their shoes and wrestle their arms into their coats.

A part of him is itching for them to stay.

Another voice is urging them to leave.

But all of him just wants to break down and cry, all over again, tired of the relentless tug of war that keeps dragging him beneath the tide.

Missy is singing delicately, dancing rings around Nas as she giggles, toying with the zipper of her coat. Riz is sat on the bottom step, tongue poking out of his mouth as he ties his laces, swearing every time Naveed leans down to tug them loose after he’d just finished one shoe. Something so normal shouldn’t feel so weighted, but it does.

And it’s then that Naveed sidesteps round the girls, away from Riz’s mumbling, and catches Cory’s eye. It makes him stiffen and thaw all at once, and his stomach is doing flips by the time Naveed nods his head forward, gesturing for them to go into the kitchen.

Thank fuck he’s leaning against the doorframe.

It takes him a moment for the dizziness to pass, and then he’s shifting, gliding into the kitchen with a dissociating numbness. There’s a soft click after a moment, laughter and singing becoming trapped on the other side of the door. The sounds of happiness get locked away, and it’s so fitting that Cory has to grip the counter, has to blink furiously and pull himself out of his own head before he’s in too deep.

“Cory-”

A hand rests on his shoulder.

Cory gags for air.

“I’m here,” Naveed says automatically, because of course he does. “Focus on me, alright?”

The sound that rips from his throat is borderline hysterical, head falling down as if it’s an unbearable weight. He means well, he always does, but it’s the one thing Cory’s tried to avoid this whole time. Naveed becoming what felt like the centre of Cory’s world is what flipped him on his axis, that part of him craving love and affection and all those bits in between suddenly lighting up with hope, with possibility, with enough fight that left his head spinning.

And it’s the first taste of that love and affection, combined with who it was from, that sent him spiralling. Cory Wilson has never been in touch with his humanity. At least, that’s what the girls at school would say. In reality, he’s been too scared to even deal with it.

There’s that word again – _scared_.

He’s always fucking scared.

Naveed’s grip on his shoulder tightens, and it grounds Cory enough to help him pull his breathing back. If he tries hard enough, the burning touch that Naveed’s fingertips are causing can be morphed into something ugly, something horrible that he deserves. Fire and pain instead of sincerity and tenderness, what he believes is the only thing he can have versus what he craves.

And then he’s being tugged back gently, embers sparking all over, and the heat that coils in Cory’s stomach when Naveed turns Cory’s face with his hand could never be twisted into something bad.

No matter what he does, or where he goes, he’s got people looking out for him. The knowledge makes his chest ache, but the fluttering in his stomach comes on strong, and there it is again. That fight inside that Cory can never win, but he glances at Naveed through teary eyes. He traces his face, from Naveed’s furrowed brows to his parted mouth, from his comforting touch to his breathing, and the fluttering becomes a full on roar, a shriek of pure _want_.

“Cory,” Naveed whispers, and Cory breaks.

“Don’t leave.”

It tumbles out of Cory’s mouth with a desperation he didn’t know was present. It’s drenched in fear, and loneliness, and _doubt_ , the words floating in the air like a siren as opposed to a song.

Naveed takes Cory’s face in both hands, mouth moving wordlessly as he fights for the right thing to say. And it must hit him the same time it hits Cory, that there never _will_ be a right thing to say, not like this. There’s no words that are perfect or that Cory expects because the only thing he expects is to be left behind, but luckily, that’s the one thing Naveed always knows how to battle.

“I won’t,” he swears, and Cory’s heart leaps into his throat at the sincerity. “I’m right here, alright?”

Naveed is right here.

And so is Riz, and Missy, and Nas.

He has people.

Cory doesn’t want to let go of that, even if he doesn’t know how to hold on.

Even though he’s scared, even though he feels sick at the thought of people wasting their time on him because all this time he’s been a lost cause, all this time he’s believed he’s nothing. Even if his grip is weak, ready to leave before he’s the one that gets left, his fingers curl and cling. His hands tremble, and he doesn’t know if he’s enough, but he wants to try.

He wants to figure out _how_ to try.

And the first – and only – thing he can grasp is Naveed. And so he grabs Naveed’s jacket like a lifeline, who represents everything good and embodies the additional people beyond the door, and just holds on.

Spending so long shielded from the sun can make anybody wary of the light, and it’s scary and overwhelming and crushing, but something about it is good, he can feel it in his belly. Something about what he’s doing now, taking a chance, it feels _good_ , and it all comes back to the rush of warmth that comes with a group of people he gets to call his, the safety net that catches him in the form of his best friend.

The pure, unfiltered, uncontrollable _love_ he feels takes hold and pulls him to the surface, and it’s the first gasp of air that makes him feel alive again.

“Everyone – everyone always leaves, but I don’t _want_ you to.”

And that’s to Naveed, but he’s not the only one. His voice is worn and vulnerable, too small to be heard beyond the confines of the kitchen, but it takes him aback at how much he wants to be heard for once.

How grateful he is for Riz and the way he comes running when all Cory has to do is ask – sometimes not even then. How Missy’s presence makes him feel like everything will turn out alright if he hangs in there. How Nas will look at him like she _gets it_ when he hasn’t said a word, and how he’s slowly learning that he doesn’t have to.

It comes with the territory, that grip of friendship.

“Okay, we’ll stay,” Naveed whispers to him, like sharing a secret.

And those words hold so much weight.

Because Cory knows deep in his gut that Naveed doesn’t just mean right now, but in general – they’re here to stay and to listen to him rant or watch him struggle to find the words. They’re here tonight, and the morning after, and each day that comes. They’re a phone call away, or a ten minute walk, or a frantic text when everything gets too much.

The girls are here to lift him up, and Riz is here to hold him as he cries, and Naveed is the one whose always left standing long after the bell for last call rings out, and they care too much and Cory might be scared but he’s never felt this before.

They care too much about him, just like Cory cares too much about being forgotten or losing them, even if he fights tooth and nail to push himself away at times.

They care too much because they might feel for Cory like he feels for them, and that’s –

That’s terrifying, but it’s good.

‘Cause he knows he’ll learn to deal with it eventually, knows that he wants to, and that the thought of people having his back won’t hurt him anymore, won’t make him feel powerless as though they’ve got his life in his hands.

He’s never had a say in people leaving before, in the lack of care that they’ve shown or the lack of feeling he’s experienced from girls to his own dad.

Cory’s never had a support system, but he thinks he does now.

And standing there in his kitchen, wrapped up in Naveed whose clinging to him with just as much fear of letting go, knowing that he’s going to have another night of affection and people laughing and the house being _alive_ in a way it hasn’t been in – well, forever.

It’s a feeling he could get used to, if he lets himself.

“Hey,” Naveed murmurs, nudging Cory’s cheek with his nose as he pulls back to glance at his face.

And – okay. Cory’s brain is still fried and he’s full of anxiety and he can barely string together a coherent sentence, let alone suss out how he’s feeling half the time, but he knows that the weird skip his heart does when his best mate looks at him is everything and yet somehow more than that.

And he thinks he might want to understand what exactly that is, but not right now. He can’t, not when he can barely have someone say that they’re here for him without him having a meltdown. Not when it’s Naveed of all people.

This is his heart, and it’s on the line, and it’s going to take a long time for him to settle into this routine of having people give a shit before he feels brave enough to even consider other possibilities, other kinds of love that he can’t even fathom.

Sex was all about connection for him, and the connection he’d had with Naveed was different to everyone else. Whilst physical contact made him feel important, Naveed made him feel _seen_ , and that’s something he’d thought he’d only get from that kind of intimacy.

This, though – the fact that Naveed’s stayed and held him instead of ran away, that he’s willing to help and be there for him without an ulterior motive speaks volumes Cory’s never reached before. The kind of affection that Naveed and Riz give him, the little things the girls have done to make him feel valued – that’s the kind of affection he wants more of.

That’s the kind of thing that matters.

That’s the kind of thing that makes Cory feel enough, all on his own.

“Nav,” he whispers, throat dry and tongue heavy.

_Maybe one day_ , he thinks. He’s surprising himself so much lately that anything seems possible, and Naveed –

“We’ve got you,” Naveed repeats gently, a lopsided smile tugging at his mouth.

Naveed isn’t going anywhere.

There’s still time.

“Thank you,” Cory tells him, and because he can, because he’s wanted to for a long time, he pushes himself. “For everything.”

The grin he receives is blinding.

“Anytime,” he says, an echo of Riz the night before, and grateful doesn’t even cover the sheer emotion that’s creeping up Cory’s chest.

There’s a pause, and Cory wants to say so much but he still doesn’t have the words, but he finds that he’s more content with it than ever before. _Baby steps_ , he has to remind himself, letting his hand fall from the front of Naveed’s jacket to his hand, gripping and squeezing with everything he has.

He’s hoping that voices enough.

Naveed squeezes back, warm and gentle, and Cory wonders why he ever had doubts about being understood in the first place when anything he’s ever given Naveed, little or a lot, has and always will be enough.

It takes a few moments before Naveed gives his arm an experimental tug, wondering just how far he can push now that Cory’s calmed down. He’s testing the waters, a silent question as to whether or not Cory wants to face the rest of their mates yet, and he has so much _love_ for his best friend that he can’t fucking breathe.

And that word still terrifies him but he fights the fear, giving Naveed a nod and letting himself be guided to the kitchen door. It opens a moment later, quite literally making him face the music –

He needn’t have worried.

‘Cause there’s nobody in the hallway.

He seizes up for all of three seconds before Naveed’s hand grounds him like an anchor, before the noise of the television floats through from the living room, before Cory’s eyes clear from his momentary lapse to see three pairs of shoes haphazardly discarded at the front door.

They’ve stayed.

Cory walks into the living room, lips still partially numb from the brief shock, except he’s thawed immediately by the sight of Missy and Riz fighting over the remote, the kind eyes and soft smile Nasreen sends his way, the constant grip of Naveed’s fingers in his.

He’s got his doubts, but they’re fought away every time.

Cory might be lost, but he’s not losing _them_.

He practically collapses on the sofa in relief, partially on Nas who laughs and shoves him playfully, and he’s brought Naveed down next to him.

Naveed squeezes his hand before untangling their fingers, and there isn’t even a brief moment of cold that creeps up his spine because he knows deep in the depths of his heart that they aren’t going _anywhere_.

There’s a fond smile raising the corners of his mouth as he watches Naveed launch himself across the room, sprawling out over Riz who squawks and tries to shove him off, all while Missy’s cackling and trying to pry the remote from Riz’s iron grip.

“I, um – I told my mum. That you’re alone.”

And any other time, Cory would’ve jumped straight into a panic, but the softness of Nasreen’s voice immediately soothes the fear that bubbles inside him. She’s calm, with those big brown eyes that can weather any storm, and so Cory lets the tension fall from his shoulders, sinking into the worn sofa cushions.

“I mean, she knows anyway. About your dad, and Jordan. I just – I told her ‘cause I figured you could come round instead of staying here all the time, you know?”

“You didn’t have ta-”

“I know,” Nasreen interrupts. “She’s more than happy to have you round, though, even if it’s just for tea. The offer’s there, you know, in case you ever want it.”

Cory’s eyes sting with an onslaught of tears he can’t choke down, and soon finds that he doesn’t want to.

“Thanks,” he tells her honestly, raw and quiet. “Really, that’s – thanks.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Nasreen teases lightly. “It’s a madhouse.”

“Used to it,” Cory fires back, the pair sharing a grin.

“Seriously, though. She wanted to come round here herself, bring you loads of food and that, but I compromised with you coming to tea at least once-”

“Oh, so I don’t even get a choice?” he asks, elbowing her.

It’s not like he’d say no anyway.

They’re both fully aware of that.

Nasreen narrows her eyes playfully. “Have you met my mum?”

Cory snorts, and Nasreen giggles, and there’s a lightness in the air he hasn’t felt since Naveed’s comedy show, since the words _and I love him for that_ first came out of his mouth.

People care – and it’s new and it’s different, or maybe it isn’t. Maybe it’s always been there and Cory’s been too blind, too afraid, too _much_ to let himself see it. Except now he’s not running, or got nothing to hide. And he’s still scared but it’s here, right in front of him, sat in his living room.

It’s his support system he never knew he had.

“I win!” Riz crows from across the room. Cory pulls himself from his head and away from Nasreen’s shining face in time to see Naveed shoved to the floor, remote held high, Missy muttering somewhat angrily under her breath as she fixes her hair.

From the ground, Naveed grunts. “I think _I’m_ the one with a broken neck now.”

“Get up off the floor, will ya?” Nasreen laughs, leaning over to tug him up with one hand.

“Pick something decent,” Missy demands. “And I say we order pizza.”

“We’re not made of money,” Riz drawls sarcastically, eyes darting over after a moment.

Cory realises that Riz thinks he’s going to freak, or that he feels guilty because of the money, but he doesn’t. Actually, Cory feels lighter than he has in weeks, almost floating. He can’t be brought down by anything, not now. Not when he’s got people to lift him back up.

“Pizza does sound good, though,” Cory says wistfully, sharing a smile with Naveed as he climbs back onto the sofa, settling down next to him and curling into Cory’s side ever so slightly, enough to make Cory feel weighted in the safest of ways.

There’s more bickering, Riz idly flicking through the channels, when it hits just how loud the TV is.

The loudness hasn’t seemed to bother him in a while.

Riz must notice, too, because he glances over at Cory just as he speaks.

“Bit loud, innit?”

There’s something glinting in Riz’s eyes as his lips tug into a smile, and he’s on the other side of the room with his words buried beneath the bickering of everyone else, but Cory doesn’t need for Riz to be loud to hear what he says.

“Don’t worry, mate,” Riz says. “We’ll help you turn it down.”

Cory feels that in his throat.


End file.
